Every morning feels the same. I wake up to the same quiet world, the same gray skies, and the same overwhelming feeling that time is slipping away too quickly. I want to hold onto it, to freeze everything in place before it all falls apart. But no matter how hard I try, the days just keep moving. The bell rings. I walk through the doors of Room 205, and for a moment, everything seems like it could be okay.
But it's never okay.
She's standing at the front again, writing something on the board, her back turned to the class. I watch her for a moment, the way her hair catches the light, the way her fingers curl around the chalk, as if she's creating something in the air. I can feel it again—this ache, this pull that ties me to her. It's always there, just under the surface.
She doesn't know. She'll never know.
But something shifts today. Maybe it's just my imagination, but there's a difference in the air. She's talking to the class, explaining something, and I'm barely listening. My eyes are fixed on her, as they always are, but today, something changes. She looks directly at me.
Not in the way she always does—polite, professional, indifferent. No, this time her gaze lingers, just for a second too long. It's subtle, but it feels like a crack in the world. My heart races, and I'm suddenly aware of the way my hands are shaking.
It's nothing. It's probably nothing. But for that one moment, everything feels possible. She sees me. She notices me.
And then, just as quickly, it's gone. She turns away, continuing the lesson like nothing happened, like we're just two strangers passing in the hallway. But I can't shake the feeling.
The rest of the day is a blur. Every time I glance her way, I feel like she's aware of it now—aware of me, of the way my heart beats faster every time she's near. It's unbearable.
The bell rings at the end of class, and I stand up to leave, my legs unsteady. I don't want to leave. I don't want to walk out the door and disappear from her life, never to be seen again. But I have no choice. The world doesn't stop for me. It doesn't stop for anyone.
I'm about to walk out when I hear her voice.
"Hey," she says, and I freeze.
For a moment, I think I'm dreaming. She's never spoken to me like that, not casually, not in a way that feels like I matter.
"Are you okay?" she asks, her voice soft but concerned. "You seem a little off today."
I don't know what to say. My mouth is dry, and I can't breathe.
"I'm fine," I manage to say, my voice coming out weaker than I intended.
But she doesn't seem convinced. She looks at me for a moment longer, her eyes searching mine.
There's a kindness in her gaze, a softness I've never seen before. And then, just as quickly, she smiles that gentle, perfect smile and says, "Well, take care of yourself, alright?"
I nod. "I will. Thank you."
I turn to walk out, and I feel the weight of the world pressing down on me. I want to scream, to collapse, to tell her everything—but I can't. I won't.
She's just being kind. She's just being a teacher.
But for that one moment, I was seen. And maybe that's enough.